CHAPTER IV
Now it is the time of night, That, the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spite, In the church-way path to glide. SHAKESPEARE
On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came toEmily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had beenparticularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended alongthe north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, asEmily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extentof the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whoseobservations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might exciteenquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before theyventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were goneto bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, orDorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, herspirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events,and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these hadoccurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too wasaffected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear.From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, atfirst, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmityand alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to supporther feeble steps.
They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over awide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suiteof rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the opencorridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambersof the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, fromthence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself.Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a woodfire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surroundedby chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of theback stair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked around; 'Let uslisten,' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hearany voice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there certainly is no person up in thechateau, besides ourselves.'--'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but Ihave never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know,my fears are not wonderful.'--'What do you know?' said Emily.--'O,ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door onthe left is the one we must open.'
They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, Dorotheeapplied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she endeavoured to turnit, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear itwill not move.' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered aspacious and ancient chamber.
'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passedthrough this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'
Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky andsolemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on througha long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than therest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.
'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are goinginto the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah,ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'
Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment wasfurnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose herspirits.
'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to mymind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since allthat sad affair happened!'
'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.
Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, andthey listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spokeagain upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was inmy lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fittedup according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you cannow hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of thebest--ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!--allthis grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion ofsome in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came fromsome outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are fadedalready!--since I saw it last!'
'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily.
'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all thetime between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to begreatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, orother, but I have forgot the name.'
Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, byverses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that itexhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances.
Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked thedoor that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily passedinto a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, thatthe lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when sheentered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcelytrusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It wassome time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which theMarchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end ofthe room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green damask,with the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion of a tent,half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty yearsbefore; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, ofblack velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she heldthe lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almostexpected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering thehorror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in theturret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning fromthe bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall--as when last I sawher!'
Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again withinthe curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; whileDorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, andpresently tears brought her some relief.
'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on thatterrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, andsaw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'
'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily, 'let us go.Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you.'
'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a smalldoor near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with thelight, into the closet of the late Marchioness.
'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to a portraitof a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when she camefirst to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you,then--and so soon to be cut off!'
While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, whichbore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of thecountenance in each was somewhat different; but still she thought sheperceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which sostrongly characterised the miniature.
'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at youtogether,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with,exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though shecould not now recollect who this was.
In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robeand several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as ifthey had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satinslippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long blackveil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was droppingto pieces with age.
'Ah!' said Dorothee, observ
ing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it there;it has never been moved since!'
Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well rememberseeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night beforeher death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded herto take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her howmuch better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, thatnight.'
Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenlyover Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending evento her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreatedthat she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought,' added she, 'howlike you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;--may your life,ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'
Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on thedressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on whichher eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large orielwindow of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and aprayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee hadmentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window,before she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, asif it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so oftenawakened it.
'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear ladydied, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and mylord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they didwhen my lady was removed for interment.'
While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was aSpanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand,she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were outof tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at theirwell-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This isthe lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she playedupon it--it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undressher, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music fromthe oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, Istepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; forthe music--though it was mournful--was so sweet! There I saw her, withthe lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon hercheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and hervoice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, andwipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had oftenlistened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it mademe cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for therewas the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies openstill! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'thisis a heart-breaking place!'
Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more uponthe bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading intothe saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it,thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of theroom. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or itis probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not haveaffected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal heremotion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change,enquired if she was ill.
'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms isunwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that shemust pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror hadappeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, shesat down on the side of the bed.
Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of themelancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavouredto cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began torelate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting,that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they wereparticularly interesting to herself. 'A little before my lady's death,'said she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, andstretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where the curtainfalls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time--deathwas in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now.--There she lay,ma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpanewas not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she waslaid out upon it.'
Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could haveseen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the whitepillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyeswandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Withoutspeaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, andby the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily tothe bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted,and fall again.
Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed;and, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle;we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp,too.--It is only the wind.'
She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violentlyagitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only hadoccasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, thepall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a humancountenance rose above it.
Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber asfast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doorsof all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached thestair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the femaleservants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived ofall presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasionof her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, whenshe could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joinedby Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the servants, who hadquickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of the night in aroom so near to these terrific chambers.
Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then beganto talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance,that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her ownperceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Havingnow mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked thehousekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened,by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorotheereplied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doorsin her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through thecastle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had triedthese doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. Itwas, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could havegot admittance into the apartments; and, if they could--it was veryimprobable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold andforlorn.
Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, beenwatched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them intothe rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in theoriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed.
Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, onentering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, andthis, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by anyof the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually haveexcluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she nowpersisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen wasnothing human, but some dreadful apparition.
Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be theappearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fateof the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; andthis unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of hersufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, towhich, after having detected the fallacies at Udolph
o, she might nothave yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by thehousekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence ofthis night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed,that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainlyspread alarm and confusion among his family. 'Time,' she added, 'mayexplain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event insilence.'
Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had leftall the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courageto return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to thefoot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended,whose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented togo, and they left Emily's apartment together.
No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls andgalleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, Dorothee'sresolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen,and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below,and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber,she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, andreturned to Emily.
As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a soundof lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, andthey stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguishedthe voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with anotherfemale servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maidshad spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was,she was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours tolaugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, incompassion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in herroom during the night.